Do You Want to Race a Chariot?
by Morning-Tide
Summary: Before his death, Moses writes one final letter to Rameses, whom he believes had perished in the Red Sea. Little does he know he is still alive in Egypt.


**Do You Want to Race a Chariot?**

Moses knew he had a thousand breaths left before he would climb Mount Nebo to meet God. He and the Hebrews had wandered the desert for forty years, always straining toward the Promised Land of Milk and Honey. They would see—no, _step_—into the Promised Land while he could only satisfy himself with seeing it from afar before joining God. When he started wishing he could step into the Promised Land, Moses reminded himself why he had sacrificed any hope of walking into God's land: it was so his son would live to see it. Once, long ago, God had asked Moses to allow Gershom's soul to join him on one Passover, but Moses declined—and he had never refused God so furiously before. No, he would not allow God to take Gershom before him, even if it cost the promise of leading the Hebrews himself into the Promised Land. He hadn't just done it for himself and for Gershom—he had done it because of regret for what happened in the tenth plague on Egypt. He could have _saved_ Rameses' son, and didn't. He'd allowed his own brother's son to die, and now Moses had to live with that for another forty years. That and believing his brother had perished with the soldiers when the split Red Sea reunited its waters. There was no way Egypt could have survived what had happened—and yet, travellers and traders wafted through the next forty years talking of an Egypt recovering and soon thriving again.

_At least there's no more slavery, _Moses thought, _even if my brother no longer lives. _

His only hope was that the Egyptians had given him a proper burial worthy of a king who never knew his true worth. Sobering how one sentence—_one weak link can break the chain of a mighty dynasty!_—could change a man so much forever. If Moses hadn't run away from Egypt, would Rameses have been a different, perhaps more conscientious, ruler? Now he was dead and no one would ever know.

_Has he a tomb of his own? _Moses mused, _and is that tomb empty or does Rameses rest there? _

If Rameses had perished, who was it then that had restored Egypt to full health? Who breathed life into it as Isis did for Osiris in the form of a bird? Who was there for those who had lost loved ones? The traders never spoke the name of this new king, but from what Moses had overheard, he seemed to be a fair ruler. He even went out of his way to ensure the traders had a safe passage—especially if they worshiped the God without a known name.

_If only you had been like your successor, _Moses thought sadly as he dragged out papyrus and writing apparatus, _then perhaps my people would have had better lives during your rule._

Moses settled cross-legged on a simple blanket spread out on the floor of the tent. He rested the papyrus on a slab of stone resting on his knee, and began to write.

_I have to do this, _he reminded himself, _for myself, for him. An apology that he will never read. _

No one disturbed him, for Tzipporah, Miriam, and Aaron had all passed on to God's kingdom, leaving Gershom as his only family left. Moses missed Tzipporah and his blood brother and sister, but they all had died of old age in peace, free of slavery. But Gershom still had a long life ahead, and Moses knew his own life was a few thousand heartbeats from the end. As he wrote, his hand remained steady, never shaking from age or emotion. His face remained calm, betraying nothing of what was in his heart as he wrote to a man he thought dead. The sun slipped down unheeded by Moses, who did not stop scribing even as the tent's interior darkened with oncoming night.

_I hope you have forgiven me, wherever you are now. _

His hand betrayed his sorrow, trembling as it wrote the last words of his letter in the creeping blindness of night-time. Outside, people chattered and laughed, unaware of their saviour in his tent, writing to a brother he took for dead. No one ever saw the shepherd bow his head, closing his eyes as he folded the letter with shaking hands. He placed the letter gently on the ground next to his laid-out blankets that served as his bed, not bothering to wipe his eyes.

_Tomorrow I will send an ambassador and then go to God. _

Moses tugged his red and gold robe tighter around himself, just sitting still in the dark. He liked the quiet solitude more and more. Without anyone around to distract him, he could be left to his own thoughts and conversations with God.

_I am ready to come to you, God._

He stared down at his hands, and then at the robes he clutched, a gift from Jethro. Jethro was long dead along with all three of Tzipporah's other dear sisters. The robes had become a part of him just as his staff had. He wasn't going to leave his staff behind; he would pass it on to Gershom before climbing Mount Nebo, so his son would always have something to remind him of his father.

_I am ready to be with you. _

* * *

The next morning, Moses woke up and knew this was his last morning on earth, for the same evening, he would climb Mount Nebo for the first and last time. He knew he would soon see Tzipporah, Miriam, and Aaron again. He would see the mother who had given birth to him and gave him up into God's hands when she entrusted the river to carry him away from death.

_Farewell, my people. Be well in your new land. _

With the letter and his red robe safe in an ambassador's hand and on its way to Egypt, Moses stood with Gershom at the mountain's base. His son didn't bother to keep back his tears, knowing he wouldn't see his beloved father again.

"Here," Moses said, "take my staff so I will always be with you."

He passed the staff to Gershom, who immediately embraced his father, shoulders shaking with sobs. Moses could feel Gershom gripping the back of his green robe as though he would never let go. Moses kissed his son on the forehead, hugging him tight.

"I love you, Gershom," he soothed, "and I will always be with you. Don't forget that."

He allowed his son to hold on as long as he needed to, letting out his grief as he clung onto his father. The sobbing subsided and Gershom pulled out of his father's embrace, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. Yet, he managed a weak smile.

"I love you, father."

Gershom held the staff in one hand, steady despite his grief. He didn't walk away from the mountain until his father was but a speck in the distance.

"Farewell, my beloved father," he whispered, "God is with us all."

* * *

The king of Egypt didn't expect to see the ambassador for the foreigners again so soon, and looking so grieved. He cradled a folded cloth and a letter in his arms, carried as carefully as one would a newborn. His eyes were downcast before pharaoh, but his hands shook. The king waved aside his courtiers as he pulled himself off the throne to a standing position, ignoring his hip's complaints.

_Stupid hip, _he groused, _you're always complaining. _

So did his knees, especially when rain was coming. Thankfully, rain was rare in Egypt, but his knees had developed a talent for weather forecasting. They were always accurate, for when they ached, then it rained later the same day.

"You look terrible," the king said in a sympathetic tone, "something's happened. Come with me."

The ambassador shuffled after the king who led him into a private throne room behind the main audience chamber. The doors shut gently this time, as though the king didn't want to disturb the ambassador's obvious grief.

"What's going on?" the pharaoh asked as he sat on his private throne.

The ambassador knelt, placing the cloth and letter on the ground. The cloth slipped, revealing that it was not just some piece of cloth, but a red robe with golden hemlines.

"I was asked to take this to the Egyptian king to place in his predecessor's tomb," the ambassador explained, "and to place his robe there too."

Pharaoh leaned forward, squinting to take a better look at the robe with its striking hemlines.

"Why in my father's tomb?" the king asked.

"Because he…" the ambassador frowned, eyes flickering to the king's face and away again. "He was his brother."

Pharaoh's eyes widened as realisation set in. He pointed to the robe.

"Show me the robe, ambassador."

The ambassador obeyed, still bowing to the king as he unfolded the robe with its too-familiar gold hems. The king had a sudden vision of that same robe swirling in a high wind as fire rained down.

_This was Moses's robe. _

"Ambassador," King Rameses said, "Do not put it in my father's tomb. I recognise this robe. Why have you brought it here?"

_Don't say he's dead, ambassador._

But why else would the ambassador bring his robe and a letter? The ambassador bowed his head, crossing his hands over each other.

"The man who asked me to bring this letter and his robe has died."

All the air seemed to go out of Rameses' chest at the ambassador's confirmation of Moses' death. Regaining his composure, concealing his shock, he nodded to show he understood.

"The man's name is Moses." Rameses stated, voice steady and strong, betraying nothing of what he felt inside.

The ambassador looked up, surprised, and again lowered his eyes hastily.

"You are right," the ambassador confirmed.

_So he's dead. _

Rameses didn't feel a sense of triumph or happiness—quite the opposite. No words are enough to fully envelope the true extent of a brother's grief when his brother dies—especially one he had pushed away. A sad irony wove into his heart knowing that Moses had taken him for dead.

_Now he knew how I felt when I took _him_ for dead so long ago. _

"He never knew I was alive did he?" Rameses' voice threatened to give, but he pressed his words past the cracks, reforming them into the words of a strong king.

"He knew Egypt had a king," the ambassador said, "but none of his traders and ambassadors knew your name."

_I should have told the ambassador my true name, _Rameses thought, _a long time ago. _

Now it was too late.

"There is no need to take it to a tomb," Rameses told the ambassador, "it is me he addresses the letter and robe to."

The ambassador's eyes widened in surprise. "_You_ are?"

"I was his brother," Rameses explained, "Clearly he had thought me dead."

"If I'd known—"

Rameses held up a hand. "No, it is not your fault. It is enough that you have brought his letter and robe here." The king sat back, regarding the ambassador with a sympathetic gaze. "Where is he buried?"

"On a mountain," the other man replied, "Mount Nebo, it is called. He went peacefully."

Rameses let out a silent breath. _At least he died in peace. _

"I presume he kept his staff."

"He gave it to his son, Gershom, Your Majesty. But I believe he wanted to give this to the man he called brother. Otherwise…"

"Give the robe back to Gershom, for that belonged to his father." Rameses commanded, "Tell Gershom I have received the letter, but I wish for him to keep the robe—I cannot take his father's robe. It rightfully should be handed down to Gershom, his son."

The ambassador bowed. "As you wish, Your Majesty. Here is the letter."

Rameses held out a hand for the letter, which the ambassador passed on to him. The pharaoh closed his fingers over the papyrus as he thanked his foreign ambassador.

"Are you finished here?" Rameses hinted.

The ambassador nodded, bowing yet again as he backed away to the door.

"May health and prosperity be upon you, Your Majesty."

With those parting words, the ambassador vanished through the doors, the robes cradled in his arms. The doors shut, leaving Rameses alone with the letter in his hands. He wanted to open the letter and read it, but it was still the busiest time of day. It would have to wait.

* * *

The quietest time of day was always after sundown when the last of the courtiers and visitors had gone away and the palace burrowed into either a time of festivity or relaxation. Tonight there were no festivals, which meant it was simply a quiet night with no-one but the palace residents walking, talking, relaxing, or sleeping. The guards kept guarding, the servants carried on serving, children kept on playing even when mothers urged them to bed, and the torches burned bright. Torches threw looming shadows that slipped around the columns like a thief and stalked the walls. Statues' eyes appeared to move or glow with reflected torchlight. The occasional cat would race along one of the walls, chasing a mouse or rat that dared to find its way into the palace. Someone's dog might sniff at the columns or bark at a hieroglyph. Thankfully, only once had a dog ever raised its leg to give one column a new and rather smelly "perfume". The servants were quick to clean _that_ up and the dog had been sent to its naughty corner.

Now a new, stealthy silhouette flickered between the shadows of columns thrown on the floor by the torchlight. The shadow bent a little with age and had a very subtle limp from an arthritic hip. The silhouette of the king strode between the fluttering shadows of pillars towards a quartet of statues that had stood in a hall since Seti's reign. Three of the four figures on whom the statues were based had already passed on, leaving only Rameses. The king stopped a few metres away from the monument, craning his neck to look up at the four statues built when Rameses turned fourteen, and Moses was still eleven. Only the statue of Seti did not have its head, decapitated in the turmoil of the ten plagues from so long ago. Tuya still retained her benevolent expression, and the two princes—Moses and Rameses—were as strong and youthful as ever.

Rameses strolled up to the tall stone foundation that held up the statues. He leaned his back against the foundation, standing right under the statue of Moses, letter still held in his hands. He had learned a lot just from accepting that the Hebrews' god was far more supreme than all the Egyptian gods. His gods were submissive to Moses' god who, again and again, had proved his dominance over them. It wasn't until the sea had wiped out his army, then Rameses saw just how harsh he had been with the slaves. From that day forward, he'd resolved to be a better king, one who was a strong ruler worthy of remembrance after death. Rameses thought he had succeeded so far; people seemed rather content once he had restored Egypt to full health again.

Making sure no one was around to see him, Rameses unfolded the letter and began to read.

* * *

To Rameses,

I presume you have long perished at the Red Sea, with Egypt beyond repair. I have heard that another pharaoh has ascended the throne, a ruler who has restored Egypt and made her strong again. You could have been that pharaoh, if you hadn't taken Seti's words to heart. Looking back, I think I could have been more sympathetic, considering you had believed me dead for so many years, only for me to come back and demand to let my people go. Now that I believe you deceased, I can see why you were angry that I had dismissed all those years you thought me dead. In hindsight, it was unfair, and I wish I could have had a second chance to repair what had been done wrong.

Can I tell you something? I did not want to be your enemy, I did not wish to fight against the only brother I'd known from my childhood. It was a role foisted on me by my God, and I am regretful it had to happen this way. But my biggest regret, one that has haunted me to this day, forty years on, is never saving your firstborn when I could have. Call me a coward, go on, maybe I deserve it. Maybe I deserve it for robbing a father—_thousands_ of fathers—and mothers—of their children. I knew I could have done something, and I didn't do a thing. What kind of brother am I that I saved not your child? As a father of a son, Gershom, it is always in my heart, knowing I never tried to save even one child that night. There is no forgiveness for such a horrific plague—I will understand if you would never call me brother again even in the afterlife. Because I still do.

I won't step into the Promised Land, even after all this time. God did not like me refusing to allow him to take my son before me. I'd told him if I had to make one sacrifice to know my son would live to see the Promised Land, it would be that I would never set foot on its soil. I will see it with my eyes before I die, but will never step there. I am fine with that. It means Gershom will set foot in the Land, and will live long after my death. I had to do it. I could not stand by and watch it happen again, not even to my own son.

You'll never read this, for you have long perished, but now I can die in peace of heart, knowing my regret has been shared with this papyrus. It has been a lot to carry for many years, but I am lighter now that I have unburdened myself and am free to journey on. Maybe we will meet again. Maybe we will understand and get past the past.

You have been and always will be my big brother, even in death.

Moses

_And then, at the bottom of the page in tiny print:_

Do you want to race a chariot?

* * *

The words blurred and swam before Rameses' eyes as he read the letter from start to finish. He shut his eyes tight against his tears, leaning his head back against the stone foundation.

_He did care all that time. _

But the last sentence hurt his heart the most, harking back to an era of chariot races, hunting, and carefree childhood and youth. The one line that always got him up, eager to begin—_do you want to race a chariot?_ Perhaps Moses was trying to recall those distant years fading into the dusty remnants of the past. Rameses remembered that the chariot was still in the weaponry room, covered by a large shroud. The shroud had not been removed since Moses had first run away from Egypt when he was eighteen. The pharaoh allowed tears to leak from his closed eyes, trying to remember what Moses looked like when he saw him last. His beloved little brother who had cared all this time, and now he was gone forever. He did not think him a coward at all—for it took a strong man to admit responsibility for a heinous action, and to acknowledge regret for it. But now all Rameses could think of was Moses' last line.

_Do you want to race a chariot? _

"Yes," Rameses whispered to no-one except the statue of Moses behind him, "I want to race a chariot."

* * *

**A/N: Yes, I did base the title off "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?" from _Frozen._ And yes, it was that song that inspired this idea, especially the final "do you want to build a snowman?" at the end of the tune.**


End file.
